


Getting to the Root of Things

by dotYoo



Series: Getting to the Root of Things [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Pacifist Route, and Sans has issues, but he learns to overcome them with time and help from his loved ones, in which Flowey is stronger than he should be, possession!AU, those loved ones are Toriel and Papyrus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotYoo/pseuds/dotYoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flowey takes revenge on Smiley Trashbag by making him <i>destroy his loved ones</i>.  Toriel and Papyrus help Sans through the aftermath, even when he doesn't want help.<br/></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i>“You stole that body.”</i>
    <br/>
    <i>“I’m going to kill you with it,” the flower snarls.</i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this guy](http://sushinfood.tumblr.com/)'s Flowey possession AU. Takes place in the middle of a Pacifist (Pacifrisk?) run, probably just after Frisk meets Alphys. Questions and comments welcome!
> 
> Also, bit of explaining: there are two sets of doors in Toriel’s house. One is the set she and Sans talked through, and the other is at the bottom of the stairs in her cottage.

Toriel is trying to read. A new book of snail facts came tumbling over her balcony wall the other day and she has yet to make it through the first half. Toriel heavily suspects Frisk found the book at the garbage dump and tossed it up as a gift, which is leading to questions about Frisk’s health and happiness. How is her seventh human child doing? Well enough, considering they had time to find and send her a book, but are they warm enough? Eating well enough? Brushing their teeth?

She sighs and marks the current page. There is no way to absorb anything when she’s already so occupied. Luckily, Toriel has always found baking to be a relaxing past time. Hopefully it will take her mind off the thoughtful human child. She slots the book into place on the shelf and starts to push back her sleeves.

Someone knocks on the door.

Toriel takes a moment to fold up her glasses. She finishes rolling her sleeves up, making sure both sides are neatly folded and high enough to keep from burning. This serves as a nice grounding exercise because _no one should be at that door_. The only way for someone to get to her basement door would be to pass through the outer door, which should be impenetrable. Toriel takes another moment to smooth down her skirt and compose herself, then moves to the foyer.

The intruder (because anyone capable of getting through the outer door is certainly not wanted here) knocks again. This time it’s accompanied by a voice on the other side. _“Knock, knock.”_

She quietly descends the first set of stairs, drawing magic into her palms. The fur between her fingers begins to smoke. “Who’s there?”

_“Boo.”_

The fire draws strength from her unease and catches into full, angry flames. “Boo who?”

Something rams into the doors, jolting them in the frame.

_“Don’t cry.”_

To their credit, the two halves hold together even as the hinges give out. Both sides of the door explode inward with blast of powdered rock and slam down on the stone floor. A short figure bolts from the resulting cloud of debris and grabs the front of Toriel’s dress with one hand; the other is radiating blue fire and pulled back to strike. For one horrible moment, she thinks Frisk has come home to finish the job.

_“I T ’ S O N L Y M E.”_

She blocks. The different magicks collide in a new, larger explosion. Toriel and the intruder are thrown apart. Her shoulder slams into the wall of the lower stairs, but a lifetime of royal training ensures that she lands on her feet and has the awareness to take stock of the situation. Injuries: not serious. Doors: destroyed. Intruder: gone.

She stretches her senses out further. Something is noisily building up energy.

Toriel throws herself to the side as a crackling beam of electricity obliterates the bottom set of stairs. Two huge lupine skulls hover over the spot she vacated, already charging up a second attack. She dashes up the stairs and braces both elbows on the railing to give her shot some accuracy. The fireball flies true, striking one skull off-kilter and smashing in the other. Both shatter loudly into charred bone fragments. Toriel takes a moment to catch her breath and take cover against the west wall.

The east hallway seems clear, but there’s a commotion in her sitting room. The intruder seems to be… throwing her books on the floor?

“That is completely uncalled for,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

_“What do you expect from a ‘cretin’?”_ They reply, seizing books from the shelf and dumping them on the carpet. When the bookshelf is empty, they pull it down until it tips over with a crash.

“Ah, you are the flower that attacked the human child. You seem larger now.”

A skull materializes from the air and blasts her bookshelf the splinters, then turns its beam on her dining table. _“I’m going to destroy everything you’ve ever loved! I’m going to destroy your oasis and hunt down the human child and murder your husband—”_

Toriel glances around the corner as the intruder raves. Now that’s she’s looking carefully, she can see that the intruder is a small skeleton with thorny vines wrapped around its bones. It’s disheveled at best, but Toriel can see numerous cruel fractures and thorn-sized gouges. She can also see the flower’s face blooming from one eye socket, while the other drips with tears. She can hear the dual-tone in the voice, like one person forcing another to speak in unison with them.

“You stole that body.”

_“I’m going to kill you with it,”_ the flower snarls.

“Really? Why?”

_“Because I hate everything you stand for,”_ it hisses as more tears dibble down the skeletal chin, _“You care for the human children at everyone else’s expense. It’s kill or be killed, there is no time for mercy!”_

“Are you certain we can’t talk this over? You seem like you are… experiencing some difficult things.”

The intruder walks to the scattered remains of the dining table. They crush one of the larger pieces under their heel, which strangely enough seems to be a slipper. _“Alright, I’ll go over this one more time. I H A V E N O T I M E.”_

They summon up three more blaster skulls, each humming with enough energy to destroy Toriel’s home with her inside. All three are aimed at the doorway.

_“F O R M E R C Y.”_

She sighs and draws her magic for one final attack. “Are you sure this is _watt_ you want?”

The intruder snorts. It catches Toriel’s attention. This is the first noise they’ve made that isn’t a blend of two voices, and this new voice is familiar.

“I would love to tell you a joke,” she says quickly, “But as you are a skeleton, I am worried you might not find it humerus.”

The intruder chuckles, but cuts themselves off with a snarl. _“Stop that, destroy the wall!”_

“Is your favorite instrument the trom _bone_?” Toriel quietly starts charging up a more powerful attack. Bone is more durable the most plant matter, if she can just the right temperature…

They make an undignified noise and actually slap their knee. The yellow flower glares, first at its host and then at the doorframe. The vines audibly tighten. _“Stop laughing! Stop talking!”_

“There is no need for _skulking_.”

_“Stop laughing! STOP LAUGHING! I C O N T R O L Y O U!”_ This time the laughter is broken by a jagged snapping noise and a sharp gasp.

Toriel has had enough. She’d once done an experiment to see what temperatures her fire magic could reach. At full concentration and power, the royal scientist’s machines estimated she could melt through dry granite. Moderating the temperature to just below what bone can sustain will be easy.

She fires up both hands sets the entire room ablaze. Her destroyed table and books take up the fire beautifully. The intruder yelps in surprise, then screams in rage when an teleportation attempt bounces them back into the flames.

“Did you think this house was unwarded? Why do you think your host has not visited me before?”

They frantically scale the mantle to escape the inferno, but plant matter is much more delicate than bone. The peripheral vines are already beginning to smoke. The flower screams and tries to smother the flames creeping up its tendrils even as its gold petals start to singe.

_“You think this is it? You think you’ve WON?!”_

“I think you are not willing to risk death,” Toriel replies, calmly making her way through the wreckage of her sitting room. “And I think you are going to let your host go before you burn to cinders.”

The flower glares daggers at Toriel. _“This isn’t over. I will come back, and you won’t be prepared. I’ll destroy everything you’ve ever loved, you’ll SEE.”_

Piece said, the flower withdraws into the skeleton’s eye socket. The vines shiver and retract into the chest cavity, and with a quiet _pop!_ the entire system disappears. 

“Hmm,” Toriel muses, “It shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

The skeleton sways dangerously on the mantle. They lose their footing a moment later and fall towards the licking flames, but Toriel is fast. She catches them and settles them in her arms.

“It is alright,” she says, patting the fire away from one of the skeleton’s sleeves, “You are safe now.”

“It’s going _tibia_ okay,” they agree, and pass out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Why is there no reason to turn left? Because it’s going to be alright.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary from the book Toriel is reading.

Toriel’s guest sleeps through the night and well into the next morning. If she had to guess, Toriel would say they have a mild case of exhaustion due to magical overexertion, specifically from charging a 100-thousand amp attack at least half a dozen times. Possibly more. She doesn’t know what Flowey was doing before he darkened her doorstep.

She does know when her guest tries to teleport away. The resulting static makes her fur stand on end.

“You can just use the door,” she calls, patting the excess electricity out of her arms.

They make a pained noise. The house is warded against transportation magic, and the bounce-back probably jostled their injuries. “I was kind of hoping to avoid walking past you.”

“It is inevitable,” she replies serenely, “I moved my chair to the foyer so that you would have to walk past me. I want to make sure you’re capable of walking.”

“The _down trodden_ will rise up,” they groan. “Hey, we’re talking through a door. Just like old times.”

“I am out here if you want to talk in person,” Toriel says, turning the page in her snail facts book.

“Who could turn down an invitation like that?” The guest gets to their feet with a hiss. “I simply have to meet my a _door_ ed friend face-to-face.”

She reads through three paragraphs, politely ignoring her guest’s labored breathing as they make their way to the door. “Hold on,” they say breathlessly, “I’m not used to walking around.”

“Of course,” she agrees, “It can take a while to walk when something is _afoot_.”

They chuckle. “Okay, I think I’m good. Want to pretend we haven’t already met and I haven’t destroyed your living room?”

“I would rather say ‘furniture hardly matters’ and check on your wounds,” she says.

“Fair enough. Alright, here we go.” The door creaks open.

Toriel bandaged the small skeleton up herself, but it still breaks her heart to see the number of injuries they carry. Minor skull fracture, three ribs bruised in four places, one dislocated shoulder, and one spiral fracture to the right radius. Scratches and hairline cracks _everywhere_. Toriel doesn’t trust her medical skills enough to examine her guest’s soul, but images it didn’t escape unscathed.

“Hi,” the skeleton says, extending their left hand in lieu of the immobile right, “I’m Sans.”

She takes the offered hand warmly between both of her own. “I am Toriel. Would you care for some pie?”

-

“This is nice,” Sans comments around bites of sheppard's pie. Toriel, reasonably skilled at object repair magicks and considerably well-versed in carpentry, has already repaired the dining table and sketched out the blueprints for a larger, better bookshelf. She has also cleared away the worst of the debris and fire damage, leaving the room slightly emptier but much tidier than the day before. “I like how you've fixed the utter destruction I brought on your home.”

Toriel pretends she can't hear Sans over the noise of refilling the kettle. “Do you need to tell anyone where you are?”

Sans pushes some food around his plate. “Papyrus knows I was… in trouble, but he probably doesn’t know I escaped. He uh, tried to trap me in a cave in Waterfall. Didn’t take.” He sets the fork down. “I made such a mess out of everything, Tori, I can’t see him right now.”

She nods understandingly. “You need time.”

“Yeah. And he’ll want to see me right away and—” Sans touches the plaster on his head, “I don’t know if I can—”

“It’s alright,” Toriel says quietly, “You do not need to see anyone right now. However, I would suggest giving your brother a call to let him know you are alright. Tell him that you need time alone, but do not leave him in the dark.”

He looks at her pleadingly.

“Even if I called him, he would still deserve to hear from you,” she says, gentle but firm.

Sans sighs. “Yeah, you’re right of course. Just, what do I say? How can I say anything to him? I promised I’d always look out for him, and I failed miserably.”

Toriel takes Sans’ empty mug from the table. “I could point out that, were your roles reverse, you would not think of your brother as a failure. But I do not think that is what really worries you.”

He chuckles. “Sharp as always.”

The kettle whistles. Toriel retrieves the fire and fills both mugs. Sans raises his eyebrows in question when she pours milk in one. “Extra calcium,” she says with a wink.

“For strong bones,” Sans says with a smile. It’s brittle, but it’s something.

She sets the tea down in the middle of the table. “You may have it after you call your brother.”

He looks at her again. Since Sans emerged from the nursery, his left eye has yet to manifest. It’s the same one that glowed during his attack. 

Toriel takes in the injuries for the umpteenth time. She wonders what happened before Sans broke her doors down, both while Flowey commandeered his body and before that. Where did this fear of weakness come from? And what can she do to help him over it? At best, forcing someone to heal is unethical. Toriel has no plans for force anything on this person, but neither can she allow him to hurt himself. “Call him,” she repeats gently, “And then I will teach you to bake spinach-egg pie.”

Sans takes a slow breath. “Yeah, okay.” He shakily gets to his feet and disappears from the room. The route from the kitchen to the doors is clear. While it would be well within Sans’ rights to leave, Toriel doesn’t think he will. After all, spinach-egg pie and nonjudgmental company are strong incentives.

She busies herself cleaning the counter and picking out ingredients while Sans is on the phone. Another book made its way over her balcony just this morning, and she immerses herself in it. This time, the human child sent an anthology of motivational puns. Toriel chuckles at a particularly bad one.

Sans wanders back into the kitchen. “He didn’t pick up, so I left a message. I’ll call again in an hour.” He sets the phone on the table. “So, tell me about spinach-egg pie. Is it _egg-citing_?”

“No, but it is _egg-cellent_.”

The recipe is an old, simple one she learned as a kid, and one suited to living in a low-resource area like the ruins. Toriel shows Sans how to cut butter into flour and saute mushrooms until they release their water, how to roll the dough without crumbling it and how to tell if there's enough milk in the egg mixture. Most importantly, she teaches him that there isn’t enough cheese on top until you've exceeded what looks like “too much” by half.

“I thought you'd be a by-the-book baker,” Sans says as they slide the assembled pie into the oven, “But you do everything _off the crust_.”

Toriel chuckles. “I prefer to think it's a matter of _egg-sperience_ , once you _batch_ onto the idea, it's easy to _roll_ with it.”

“The devastating triple pun! In the game of baking, I've been _creamed_.” Sans dramatically clutches his shirt with his good hand. Toriel can see the toll standing and baking have taken by the subtle tremble in those fingers.

“You knew the _whisks_ when you agreed to help me,” she replies with a smile, gently shooing Sans back towards the sitting room. “Now go sit down while I clean up, and we can do a jigsaw puzzle while this cooks.”

“Aw, come on Tori, _dishes_ something I can handle,” Sans complains.

“No whining,” she says, firmly pushing Sans over the cook line, “You are still recovering. Pick out a puzzle for us to do.”

Sans' expression doesn't change, but there is a slight stiffening around the shoulders that shows he's remembered the reason for this small vacation. He extracts the phone from his pocket and unlocks the screen. Toriel takes this as her cue to loudly turn on the sink.

Once the whisk, spatula, measuring spoons, regular spoons, butter knife, pastry cutter, small bowl (for eggs), large bowl (for dough), pan, counter, sink, faucet, and back wall have been thoroughly scrubbed, Toriel is officially out of things to do. Sans is still on the phone. She wanders nonchalantly into the sitting room and extracts her knitting from a basket under the chair. Sans watches her entrance with a completely unimpressed look, but doesn't leave the room or terminate the call. Someone on the other end is giving him a drawn-out lecture.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

Toriel looks over her current project. It's going to be a new sweater for the human child (hung over the edge of her balcony for any old human to find and cherish), but she knows they will understand when she puts it aside and picks up an unused pair of circular needles. Sans' old sweater is hanging on the coat rack as the skeleton paces in his undershirt and a pair of child-sized pajama pants found in the nursery bureau. His jacket took the worst of the fire, but the sweater would require a great deal of repair. Toriel roughly estimates Sans' shoulder width and body length, and chooses a light blue yarn from the basket.

“Okay. Yeah, thanks. _Bye._ ” Sans ends the call and tosses the phone on the table with a huff. “You ever know a lady named Alphys? About my height, glasses, kind of looks like a dinosaur?”

Toriel frowns in thought. “That sounds familiar. Does she speak with a slight stutter?”

“Yeah, that's Al. She took over as the royal scientist a while back. Didn't help with the rambling or the stutter, but you don't need to be articulate when you're as brilliant as her. Well, she's good friends with the head of the Royal Guard, who is good friends with Papyrus. Turns out Pap isn't picking up because Snowdin is being evacuated and the Royal Guard is looking for me.”

Toriel concentrates very hard on her knitting. “What are you going to do about that?”

He sighs and slumps in a chair, head resting on his good arm. “I don't know. I don't want to go out there, but they're _scared_ , Tori. I don't want that.”

“You are familiar with the head of the Royal Guard, why not send her a message?”

“Your faith in me is awe-inspiring and undeserved. The fact is: even though I fought back with everything I had, I still destroyed half the town. They're not going to forget about that. I hosed down Grillby and razed the inn and fought the Dogi and punted the rabbit kid and—” He glances at Toriel. “And I almost killed the human kid.”

Toriel meets his eye with a patient expression. She had time to think while Sans was asleep. The Flower held an unhealthy resentment towards her, so it wouldn't be a stretch to say it was also angry with the entire royal institution. Mix in a clear desire to hurt Sans on a personal level and an encounter with the seventh human child becomes inevitable. Toriel thinks of the book she received just this morning, and the obvious distress visible on Sans' face.

“Are they alright?” She asks quietly.

Sans lockjaw grin shifts into something marginally softer. “Yeah. They're way too fast, I couldn't land a single hit.”

She returns to her knitting like they've finished discussing the weather. “Then I wouldn't worry about it.”

Sans blinks. He sits up straighter. “I don't think you heard me: I _punted a child_ and attempted murder on _your_ child.”

“Did you kill anyone?” 

“No, but—” 

“No, you didn't. Because you did not do any of these things. While these things were happening by someone else's hand, you fought back and managed to keep the damage to a minimum. The people are frightened, but no one is grieving, and they have _you_ to thank for that.” Toriel eyes Sans' wrist and adds a few more loops to widen the sweater’s sleeve cuffs. “Now, unless the next words out of your mouth are 'this puzzle looks like the most interesting', I do not want to hear anything else from you right now.” 

Sans stares at her. He abruptly drops his gaze and scratches the back of his head. He makes several false starts at speech. Toriel focuses solely on her knitting, and the next time she looks up Sans has migrated to the pile of homeless items once housed by her shelf. He pulls a colorful puzzle from the stack. 

“This puzzle looks like the most interesting,” he says quietly, with the slightest upward tick at one corner of his mouth. 

\- 

“Excuse me a moment, I need to stretch my legs,” Toriel says an hour later. They have already assembled most of the puzzle's outer-edge and are just starting to work on the inner picture. Unsurprisingly, Sans chose a cheerful kitchen scene with a steaming pie on the counter. 

He nods in acknowledgment and slots another piece into place as she wanders down the stairs. 

With stone building material at a premium, Toriel hasn't had a chance to repair the guardian doors. Instead, she blended a detection spell with her strongest shield charms to seal as a makeshift seal. Toriel is confident no one could enter her home without explicit permission, which is why the person on the other side of the doorway has yet to come in. She puts on her most stern royal demeanor (shoulders back, head held high, hands clasped behind her back), then steps around the corner to see whether this person is a guest or an intruder. 

The ground outside is littered with bones. The snow has been stirred up and all foliage in a twenty foot radius has been uprooted and thrown aside. A tall skeleton, presumably the one who caused the disturbance, is now repeatedly ramming the barrier with their shoulder, trying to physically force their way in. 

“Is there something I can do for you?” 

They look up sharply. They're covered in scrapes and scratches, their armor is dented, and they look unkept in a way that suggests recent tragedy that hasn't yet finished. Toriel can see the startled recognition on their face before they take a step back and stand at attention. “Your Majesty! Are you the one who guards the ruins?” 

“I am.” 

“Have you seen a short skeleton, about this tall?” They make a gesture indicating height, “He's in the ruins somewhere, last seen wearing a blue jacket, white sweater, and black shorts.” 

This must be Sans’ brother, Papyrus. “That sounds familiar.” 

All of the tension rushes out of Papyrus' frame for a moment, then returns full force. “Is he alright? Is he hurt? Has he eaten? _Please_ let me in, I need to see him as soon as possible.” 

“He does not want visitors right now.” 

Papyrus actually stomps his foot. “That is so like him! He is such a lazy-bones, but he is so afraid of being seen as weak. He once spent three days in his guard post so I wouldn’t see him sick with the flu. I had to carry both him and the chair home because he’d frozen to it!” He starts pacing. “And what, exactly, does he think this is doing? Does he think he’s sparing me from the realities of the world? I’m a big bones, I can handle it! But try telling that to Mister Protective Big Brother. More like _Over_ protective Big _Smother_.” 

Toriel was already planning on letting Papyrus in, but it’s nice to see how much he cares. “Have you considered that this may be more about his pride than his desire to protect you?” 

Papyrus waves this off, “Sans doesn’t take pride in anything.” 

“He is proud of _you_.” 

“Well, that’s fair, I have many qualities to be proud of—” Papyrus cuts himself off and returns to the door. “Please, Your Majesty, Sans means the world to me, and sometimes he makes bad decisions because he’s lazy and thinks he can get through everything alone. But just because he _can_ get through things alone doesn’t mean he _should_. He’s my brother and I want to be there, even if that only means holding him down until he stops trying to run away. We always do better together.” 

Toriel keeps up her Royal Demeanor for a moment longer, then lets it thaw with a smile. “You may see him. But,” she says when Papyrus starts eagerly forward, “I am setting some ground rules. One, no sudden movements. Two, no loud noises. Three, no one else comes into the ruins. And four, if I tell you to stop doing something, you _stop doing it_. Understood?” 

“Yes, anything. Please,” he implores. 

Toriel gives him her best 'I am stronger than you' gaze and lowers the barrier, raising it as soon as Papyrus is over the threshold. Once, she'd sworn no one would ever pass through these doors into her home. Now there are two skeletons traipsing about. The best laid plans, she supposes. 

“Walk with me, _quietly_ ,” she says. 

Papyrus falls into step with a whispered barrage of questions about his brother’s wellbeing. Toriel answers them as best she can, but she only knows part of the story. Some details, she suspects, will come out over time, while others will remain buried for the rest of Sans' days. But, she thinks, if there is anyone who can fish the story out, it would be the skeleton barely resisting the urge to run ahead of her. 

“I will go first and let him know you are here,” she says when they reach the landing, “Come in on my signal.” And with that, she leaves Papyrus hovering anxiously in the doorway. 

In the sitting room, Sans has put a few more pieces together. “Hey, you missed the epic battle against anarchy. I've struck a blow against disarray.” 

“Sans,” Toriel says, “Someone would like to see you.” 

He slowly and deliberately sets down the puzzle piece in his hand. 

Toriel patiently says nothing. 

Sans taps the piece a few times. “I don't— Tori, look at me. I'm a mess.” 

“That does not seem like something he would mind.” 

“I know he wouldn't mind, but I can’t stand to be seen like this right now. I leveled our town so badly they’re _evacuating_.” 

Papyrus, who has completely ignored Toriel’s instructions, gently wraps both arms around Sans’ shoulders. “Stop saying dumb things.” 

Sans goes stiff with surprise, then realizes who is hugging him and abruptly lets the tension melt away. Toriel isn’t sure how much of the reaction is an act, but at least he’s trying. “Alphys triangulated the call, huh?” 

He nuzzles the uninjured back of Sans’ skull. “Something like that.” 

Toriel slips out of the room to make more tea. While the ruins were made to be a safe haven for human children, she has been alone here for longer than she cares to recount. There is enough room here to house two skeletons for a few days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus says "something like that" because he didn't actually understand Alphys' technical explanation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice family dinner with absolutely no emotions involved.

The afternoon passes uneventfully. Toriel takes care of some chores to give the brothers some privacy, returning only when Papyrus' voice get loud enough to be heard through the walls. Papyrus means well, but his pacing is angry and his voice is steadily climbing towards a shout. “...what was I supposed to think when I came back and you were _gone_?”

“Pap, can we not do this right now—” 

“And there's another question: how did you get past my blockade without breaking anything? You've never used your magic for anything but those blasters, so where was the destruction? What else can you do? What _else_ have you been keeping from me?”

Sans looks resentful. He slides down in his chair and hunches defensively into himself. “It's got nothing to do with you, can you please just _drop it_ —”

Toriel clears her throat. Both skeletons start when they realize she has been watching them from the doorway. “I was thinking of making soup for dinner,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument, “Papyrus, would you help me get things started?”

Papyrus glares at Sans, then gives a snappy salute. “I would be honored to _help_ , your majesty.”

Still seated at the table, Sans rolls his eye. The left one still has yet to manifest.

“Please, call me Toriel.” She guides Papyrus into the kitchen and away from a possible fight. Once they've passed the threshold out of the sitting room, she puts on a sterner voice. “I believe I asked you to refrain from loud noises.”

Papyrus, who looka like he was about to start ranting, deflates. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you did.”

“I understand that you two have much to talk about, but you'll have to do it gently until Sans has recovered.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “With all due respect, your ma— Toriel, Sans will run as soon as he's able. This may be my only chance to understand what he's been through.”

Toriel places the soup pot into the sink and considers this. She doesn't doubt Papyrus' assessment, but Sans has barely begun to process what has happened, and pushing too soon could compromise his recovery. In this moment, telling the story is not an option. “He will not leave for at least a few days, you will have time to hear the tale before you go. Could you please get the large container from the freezer?”

Papyrus heaves the frozen soup from the refrigerator to the counter. “Has he told you what happened?”

She chooses her next words carefully. “Sans is only here because the flower made an attempt on my life. I have no doubt he would not have chosen to come here on his own.”

Papyrus takes a step forward before remembering himself. “Are you alright?” 

“I am fine. As you can tell, I was able to remove the influence.” She hefts the container over the sink with a smile. “If it is not too much trouble, I would rather hear how this came about. You mentioned a cave?”

Papyrus grabs a fork to help chip soup out of the container and into the pot. “I, um. Found him like that. In a cave in Waterfall. We fought.” He chisels a piece from the frozen mass. “I don’t know how it happened.”

Toriel looks Papyrus over with a critical eye. “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” he says, nodding vigorously. “I’ve always been faster than Sans’ attacks.”

Together, they coax the soap into the pot and move it back to the stove. Toriel lights a flame under the element and adjusts it to a low height. “This should be ready in an hour or two,” she says, running her hands over the fire to melt any remaining ice fragments. “Papyrus, you and your brother have both been through so much over the past few days, and Sans will need your support to heal properly. But right now, that means giving him what _he_ needs, not what you want to him to need.” She puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Give him time. Your presence will do more for him than you might expect.”

Papyrus reaches up and lays his hand over hers. Toriel remembers something her mother used to say about family: _when something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us._ Papyrus is hurting from his brother’s ordeal. She hopes he, too, can properly heal from this.

“I have some bread dough resting in the oven,” she says, “Would you like to help me knead it?”

Papyrus looks interested. “Bread comes from dough?”

-

One extremely violent baking session later, the soup is bubbling on the stove and ready to eat. Sans wanders into the kitchen to help, but Papyrus picks him up and sets him back on his chair. “You only have one hand, and I don’t trust you not to fall asleep on the floor,” he says. Toriel can feel their argument hanging heavily between them, but both skeletons are trying to be nice.

Sans grins, but it looks a bit forced. “That’s only happened, like, four times. Five, max.”

Either Sans is much faster than he looks or Toriel’s anti-transportation words are down, because he continues to intercept whatever is making its way to the table. Each time, Papyrus patiently scoops him up and deposits him back at the table.

“Come _on_ ,” Sans says, “You two have been cooking for hours and I’m bored to _tears_.”

“You are also severely injured—”

“It’s not _severe_.”

“—and I want to take care of you,” Papyrus finishes firmly. “So either you can sit here, or I’ll tell Toriel your first band recital.”

When Papyrus returns to the counter, Toriel asks, “What happened at the recital?”

“It was great,” he says with a grin, “Sans’ tie got caught on the valve slide.”

Something makes a hollow noise, like a skull making gentle contact with the sitting room table. “This isn't how blackmail works,” Sans calls.

“Now you know I'm serious,” Papyrus calls back, “There are plenty more embarrassing stories I could tell if you don't _stop helping_.”

Toriel notes that despite the lacks of lips, Sans is perfectly capable of frowning. He grumbles under his breath and slides lower in the chair until he can barely peek over the edge of the table, but he does stay seated until the table is fully set.

Dinner starts out as a quiet affair. The soup is warm and the company is cordial. Toriel knows next to nothing about her guests apart from Sans' time spent outside her door, so she asks for details about their lives. They tell her about their home in Snowdin (Home of the Great Papyrus), which is a town that's come up in the woods outside her ruins. It's small, but has a healthy economy and kind neighbors. Papyrus describes each resident in detail, starting with the family who runs the inn and local shop.

“They take their youngest out on a lead to make sure he gets enough exercise,” Papyrus says. “I should take _you_ out on a lead to make sure you don't get into trouble.”

“Pretty sure I'll be staying away from 'trouble' for a while,” Sans says, reaching for the bread basket.

“You know what I mean,” Papyrus replies, placing a piece of bread on Sans' plate. Sans grits his teeth, but doesn't say anything about it.

They talk about the annual Winter Tree tradition that came from a bunch of teenagers bothering something called a Gryftrot. It sounds absolutely horrible to Toriel, and she's proud to hear about Frisk's work to bring the creature some peace. Papyrus excitedly describes his communications with Santa, and how he has always gotten exactly what he asked for and makes sure to thank the holiday guardian for the gifts each year. Toriel meets Sans eye. He shrugs and reaches for the butter.

An already-buttered knife finds its way into his hand before he can pick up the dish. Sans' grin becomes more strained.

Papyrus describes his fondness for the librarary (library?). Sans waxes poetic about a local diner called Grillby's, which causes a brief squabble about the health problems associated with grease consumption. The quarel tries to escalate into something more heated, but Toriel smooths things over by asking about their house. It's not huge, but there are two rooms and a sitting room and a kitchen. They have two pets: a grey rock, and a small white dog that occasionally lives in their shed. Sans claims to have no idea how it gets in the house, but his eye slides away from Papyrus’ glare in a way that suggests he knows more than he cares to say. 

Papyrus glowers at him and grabs the half-finished glass of water from his hand. “Allow me to get you a refill, my dear _incapacitated_ brother.”

Sans's eye twitches, and he makes a noise like he's trying to smother a scream by grinding his teeth. He does not let go of the glass. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Papyrus replies. His tone is sickly sweet. “You need to stay hydrated in this difficult time—”

“Let go, Pap—” 

“I simply _must_ insist—” 

“I said _let go_ —”

Toriel sternly takes the glass with her own hands. She looks over both skeletons with an expression she has used on both foreign dignitaries and her own bickering children. “You may be adults, be do not think that will stop me from sending you both to bed without dinner. Either we sit cordially together, or you sit in separate rooms alone.”

Sans and Papyrus glance at each other, then back at Toriel. 

“Papyrus, Sans needs you to listen to him. Tell him you're sorry for forgetting that.”

Papyrus won't make eye contact with anyone. “I'm sorry.”

“Sans, Papyrus is worried about you and wants to help. Tell him you're sorry for getting impatient.”

Sans mutters an apology under his breath.

Toriel sighs quietly and returns to her soup. She wonders where these two brothers came from, and if anyone taught them how to argue without hurting each other.

After dinner, Papyrus helps her carry the dishes to the sink and insists on cleaning them himself. Sans works restlessly on the pie puzzle for a few minutes, then excuses himself from the room. Toriel lets him go without comment.

When Papyrus sees the empty table, he sighs heavily and sits in his chair from dinner. “I made a mess of that, didn't I?”

“You could have been less contentious,” Toriel says over her knitting, “But it takes two to argue. Sans was not open to discussion, either.”

Papyrus slides a few pieces around. “I just want to take care of him, is that so much to ask?”

Toriel eyes her newest project, a bright red scarf with the letter P monogrammed in the corner, to see if it's wide enough. “Do you appreciate it when your mentor goes easy on you?”

He picks up a piece with a frustrated noise. “No, I do not. And I know that Sans see things that way, it's just. I don't know how to care for him in a way he will accept. He certainly won't tell me, and my guesses are making things difficult between us.”

Toriel sets down her needles so she can consider this seriously. She remembers mediating deals between her kingdom and Asgore's in the chaotic beginnings of the Underground, and how carefully they’d had to navigate between the two scared, hurting factions. “There is only one person who knows what Sans wants,” she says slowly. “And it is his responsibility to tell you what that is. That will take time. Until then, I will help you handle the intricacies of being a good brother.”

Papyrus sets the piece down. He looks reassured and much less worried. “Thank you, Toriel. I cannot express how grateful I am.”

“You could start by putting on the kettle. I would like to make us some tea.”

Toriel is fairly certain Papyrus fills the kettle with enough water for ten people. They wait for it to whistle together, working on their projects in companionable quiet. Toriel lets her hands knit as her mind wanders. How long has it been since she’s had to settle a dispute? The last was when she left Asgore, and the time before that must have been one of the fights between her own two children. Her dear Asriel wanted to make the world a better place, especially for his new sibling and best friend. In contrast, Chara valued independence above all else, and while they would allow Asriel to give them love and affection, Toriel wonders if her human child ever got what they really needed. She doesn’t know what they really needed.

She wonders what Papyrus and Sans really need.

She watches Papyrus work on the puzzle, kicking his legs and humming something to himself. The comparison isn't perfect, but she remembers having to mediate between her children' two different personalities. The personality differences used to spark up arguments between them, fueled by Asriel's optimism and whatever had hurt Chara in the human world. Toriel was well aware of the issues her human child faced, but had been hopeful a stable, loving home would help. It was an unrealistically optimistic dream, in hindsight, but Toriel doesn't fault herself for that. Wanting the best for her children comes as naturally as breathing. She wonders if she hasn't also adopted Papyrus and Sans, and smiles at the thought. Her family now consists of one monster child, eight human children, and two fully grown skeletons.

“Do you have any other family?” Toriel asks.

“It’s just Sans and me. We look out for each other,” he says, slotting a piece into place. “Well, Sans looks out for me.”

She considers this. “I think that you look out for Sans, too.”

“How?”

“The first personal details Sans shared with me were about your Royal Guard training. He talked about how persevering you were to prove yourself, and your perseverance was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.”

Papyrus is no longer working on the puzzle. “He said that?”

Toriel nods, setting down her needles to give Papyrus her full attention. “I remember it clearly. You inspire him, and I think that even when he is stubborn like this, he needs you.”

The kettle whistles. Toriel leaves the room so that Papyrus can dab his eyes in peace. “How do you take your tea,” she asks when the nose-blowing has stopped.

“With _love and understanding_ ,” he hiccups, “And sugar.”

-

Toriel takes the third mug downstairs to the basement. Sans sits against the wall. The remains of the door, which she has yet to clean up, have been stacked by shape and general size against the far wall.

“I have brought some tea.”

“Thanks.”

She takes a seat next to him. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

“No.”

Toriel nods wordlessly. They sip tea together in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus is humming _On Top of Spaghetti_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toriel decides everyone should know how to knit. Sans decides everyone should be on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [inhumanrobot](http://inhumanrobot.tumblr.com/), who is friend-shaped and helped with both editing and confidence.
> 
> Also, for those interested, there's been a slight update to the previous chapter. See if you can spot it! (it's at the end)
> 
> Also also, cameos inbound.

Papyrus doesn't sleep at night (despite the pillows and blankets put together for him in the sitting room), so he's the first to react to Sans' nightmare. Toriel wakes to the sound of something very large gathering energy very quickly. The covers smolder under her fists, but she calms her breath and holds perfectly still. Until something escalates beyond what the skeleton brothers can handle, her place is here.

The door to the nursery bangs open. Toriel can hear Papyrus shout something over the noise of Sans' skull blasters, followed by the clatter of bones colliding with the connecting wall. 

_“No !”_

It's harder this time, but she continues to hold down the impulse to respond. These two are not children, they are grown monsters who are capable of taking a few blows. Papyrus calls out again and the humming blaster energy suddenly cuts off. It leaves a ringing silence in its wake. No one says anything for a very long minute.

Sans says something that aims for casual and completely misses. Instead of answering him, Papyrus crosses the nursery and sits on the bed. Sans tries to say something else. Papyrus shushes him but Sans keeps talking, words picking up speed the longer he speaks until they're tumbling frantically out of him in a desperate, incoherent garble. And then Sans is sobbing.

_“I didn’t want—”_

Papyrus continues to make soothing noises as Sans breaks down. The wailing slowly fades to whimpering, which slides into hiccuppy babbling. Toriel can’t pick out individual words, but she knows the lost, wounded tone of them well enough. Papyrus murmurs quiet reassurances as Sans calms down.

_“Shhh.”_

The nursery bed is too small for even one grown skeleton, but Toriel can hear Papyrus arrange them both on it anyway. He continues to fill the quiet with his own voice as the night creeps forward, finally trailing off in the pre-morning dawn as he and Sans fall asleep together. Toriel rolls over and pulls the singed covers securely around her shoulders.

-

Sans and Papyrus don’t come out of the nursery until noon. Toriel can hear their quiet discussion as she cooks a belated breakfast. They’re figuring out how to navigate this major communication difference, and that’s going to take time and work. She remembers the mornings after she and Asgore would fight. Things could get brittle and awkward between them, but they came together because, in the end, they wanted to make things work. Until they couldn’t. 

Toriel pushes some eggs around the pan and doesn’t think about it further.

When her guests finally emerge, Toriel has set the table with eggs and potatoes. “There is no meat, or I would have made bacon,” she says as they sit down to breakfast.

“No _beef_ from me,” Sans says with a wink.

Papyrus aims a sour-lemon look across the table. “Of all the puns you’ve made, that was the _wurst_.”

Toriel chuckles. Sans grins delightedly.

Papyrus realizes his pun and rubs the space between his eye sockets. “You are a bad influence.”

“I am the _best_ influence.”

They eat comfortably together. Toriel and Sans exchange food puns while Papyrus groans loudly, but he’s smiling under the complaints.

After breakfast, Toriel takes some extra pillows from the spare bedroom and puts them in front of the fire. Once her guests are seated, she hands a pair of knitting needles to Papyrus and a tangled skein of yarn to Sans. “You two live in a cold climate, yet you run around wearing short sleeves and slippers.”

They glance at each other’s clothes. Papyrus is wearing his uninsulated battle body, and Sans has yet to find a warmer pair of pajamas.

“We don't actually feel the cold,” Sans says hesitantly.

“You still need proper winter-wear. Since you are obviously not going to buy appropriate clothing, I will teach you to knit your own. Sans, since your arm is broken you will be in charge of straightening out the yarn. Wind it around your fingers to keep it from knotting.”

From there, she shows them the basics of knitting. Papyrus takes to the lesson well, while Sans enjoys the inherent puns in the naming system. Once they have the basics, she hands them a book of beginner projects with strict instructions to pick a warm piece of clothing. Papyrus eyes his brother’s torn jacket and chooses an easy beanie hat. Sans agrees, but Toriel sees him look over Papyrus’ ragged mittens. They both look relaxed for the first time since entering the ruins. Toriel congratulates herself on the small victory by putting more water in the kettle.

-

After knitting practice, Toriel decides they should eat lunch in the ruins. A meal under sunny skies would have been ideal, but the quiet halls are better than nothing. They pack lunch and a few books, and Toriel selects the Frog Room, because a.) it’s close enough that Sans can walk, and b.) Papyrus can enjoy the switch-perspective puzzle. He dashes between the rooms for ten minutes, squealing each time he makes a correct connection. 

“I don’t know how the switches keep moving,” Papyrus says delightedly, “But it’s fantastic! We should put one of these up in the woods!”

“Yeah, sounds good bro,” Sans says with a smile.

Toriel spreads a blanket over the stone floor and extracts three stacks of pancakes from her wicker basket.

“Fancy,” Sans says as he takes a plate. In the slightly better light of the ruins, he has the distinct look of someone who has recently experienced an extreme emotional outburst and come out better for it. 

Papyrus, too, looks both exhausted and immensely relieved. He cocks an eyebrow when Toriel hands Sans both a knife and fork, and laughs when Sans spears an entire pancake on the fork. “Here,” he says, handing over his napkin, “You'll need this.”

“That was direct,” Sans says around a mouthful, “You're not even trying to be syrup-ticious.”

Papyrus grumbles, but it lacks the heat from the day before. Whatever was said in the early morning hours has done both Sans and Papyrus a world of good. They sit together easily, no longer carrying the weight of whatever hung between them. Toriel knows that communication problems like these can't be solved by one night of volatile emotion, but this has been an excellent first step.

In spite of the easy atmosphere, a fleeting look of trepidation passes over Sans' face. He holds his peace all through breakfast and helps pack up with no further comment. Toriel, who has never been accused of being unprepared, pulls her knitting from the basket and busies herself with the needles. Papyrus' new scarf (bright red and long enough to drape over his shoulder) and Sans' new sweater (blue with a white bone pattern in place of argyle) are coming along nicely. She focuses intently on these projects.

“Pap,” Sans says.

Papyrus looks up from his book, a compendium of old children’s stories.

“Why don’t we take a quick walk? I want to show you something.”

Papyrus looks skeptical, but marks his page and help Sans stand up. They walk all of twenty feet, just out of earshot, when Sans stops.

Toriel hears him make several attempts at explanation before he gives up and demonstrates instead. There is a rush of electricity being drawn to a single point in the room, and Sans is suddenly standing at the corner of the blanket. He smiles nervously at Toriel. She can see trepidation in his expression, mixed with reckless, unfettered hope. This is something Sans has clearly wanted to share with someone for a long time. Toriel smiles back and whispers, “Do not keep him waiting.”

Sans takes a shaky breath and blinks back out of existence. When he reappears, it’s at Papyrus’ side, holding out his book of fairytales with an anxious grin.

Papyrus takes this well. There is minimal shouting about _“Why do I have to walk to the grocery store if you can just pop over like that?”_ and _“If you can teleport, why do I always have to carry you home?”_ and _“I was wrong about everything, you are actually the laziest person I’ve ever known!”_ But under everything is a gentle, all-consuming acceptance. 

_I see what you can do, and it’s alright._

Sans nervously offers Papyrus his hand. Papyrus eagerly grabs it with both of his and demands to seen the extent of Sans’ powers.

“Let's go to the switch puzzle! No, let's go to the woods so I can _build_ a switch puzzle! _No_ , let's go to Undyne’s house so I can tell her about the switch puzzle and then also tell her that _my brother can teleport!_ "

“The house is warded, you will not be able to enter it or cross the shield barrier,” Toriel calls without looking up from her yarn, partly because it's true but mostly because the mention of teleporting in public makes Sans look like he's having a heart attack.

“How about the balcony,” Sans wheezes, “Tori says you can see the capital from there.”

“ _Yes!_ I want to see the capital, get me to the balcony right now!”

With another rush of electricity, Sans and Papyrus blink out of the room. Toriel pats the static from her fur and clothes once more. If this becomes a long-term visit, she'll have to invest in dampening charms to keep the house grounded.

Toriel works on her knitting. It had been painful to watch Sans and Papyrus fight, but seeing the come back together is absolutely heart-warming. Not all disagreements can be resolved so easily. Her mind wanders back to her thoughts from breakfast. Toriel sighs. She does her best to avoid thinking about Asgore, but with the time they spent together and the life they once shared, it's inev-itable that he would cross her mind every now and again. They were family too, once, until she found out he was willing to murder seven children to save face with their people. Her partner, the king she thought she'd married, would have been willing to take their one viable human soul and cross the barrier with it, sparing monster-kind an eternity underground. Instead, Asgore had waited until the choice was made for him. Knowing that he would rather wait for fate to make a decision rather than carve his own path in the world had been too much. This was not the king she had loved.

The death of her six human children had only confirmed that she'd been right to leave. She had let those children go because it was the right choice for them, even knowing she was sending them to her ex-husband bloody hands, because she couldn't bear to let their tiny spirits die in the ruins. She did what Asgore never had the courage to do: she did what was best for them, even when it hurt her. Even when it nearly killed her.

Toriel shakes her head to clear the grim memories away. She stands by her decisions, past and present. With this in mind, she packs up her knitting and turns back to the cottage.

Papyrus is waiting in the courtyard. He's carrying Sans, who is fast asleep against his shoulder. Toriel thinks the energy expenditure must have tired him out.

“Someone has locked your door,” Papyrus whispers loudly.

“I did, it is an old habit,” Toriel says apologetically. She fishes the key from her pocket so they can all go inside.

-

When they sit down to knit after dinner, Papyrus insists that Sans work on his own knitting assignment.

“I know you can do it,” Papyrus says, his own needles already clacking along, “You don’t have an excuse to get out of practice.”

“It’s not practice,” Sans grumbles, eying the set-up distrustfully.

“I saw you looking at the pattern for mittens, and I want them. Make some mittens for me.”

Sans, never able to deny his baby brother anything before and certainly not able to do it now, sighs. His left eye manifests a cyan color and the needles are surrounded with blue light. They float easily from his hand and twist around each other several times, then suddenly lose their glow and drop to the floor.

“It’s been a while,” says Sans, “And I’ve never done anything this detailed before.”

“Talk later, mittens now,” demands Papyrus, who looks more interested in a demonstration of his brother’s powers than a new pair of gloves. He stares with rapt attention as the needles turn blue and rise up again.

They apparently don’t need Sans’ supervision to operate, since they continue knitting and purling as Sans looks away to check the pattern. Papyrus takes the opportunity to grab one. The needle wriggles in his grasp, while the other tries to keep knitting as the yawn unravels off of it.

“Do you want these things or not?” Sans grumps, gathering the unspooled yarn into a pile.

“How do you know what’s happening without looking?” Papyrus’ eyes widen and he looks down at the needle in his hand. “Can you _feel_ with them?”

“Can I…? I have not grown nerve endings in a pair of knitting needles, you enormous weirdo.” Now free to use his abilities, Sans magicks the yarn into an orderly skein instead of winding it around his fingers.

Papyrus puts both hands behind his back. “Which hand am I using to hold the needle?”

Sans rolls his eyes. “One that’s going to be very cold if you don’t let me get on with this.”

“Papyrus,” Toriel says firmly, “Don’t you have your own project to work on?”

Papyrus hands back the needle with a huff, but Toriel can see him watching Sans closely. The room falls quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of three separate knitting projects coming together. 

Evening slides into nighttime proper and the glow of Sans' needles grows dim. He yawns widely and plucks them out of the air. “Think it's about time for bed. You have a bedtime story picked out, Pap? I'll read two since I missed last night's.”

Papyrus marks his place and sets the knitting aside, then gathers some bedding with one arm and Sans with the other. Toriel catches a pillow when it tumbles out of the pile and follows him to the nursery, where Papyrus reestablishes his bed on the floor. Sans, who now looks utterly confused, is gently set on the bed.

Papyrus travels between the two rooms until he has firmly relocated his sleeping area to be adjacent to Sans'. Toriel sits at the end of the bed and watches the progress fondly. When Papyrus’ bed is finished, he turns back Sans' covers and tucks him in.

“This is unusual,” Sans says.

“It is,” Papyrus agrees as he fluffs a pillow. “Tonight, I will be telling you a bedtime story. I've been doing research, and I think I've gotten the just right blend of fantasy and science fiction for your nerdy tastes.”

“Oh.” Sans settles into the mattress and laces his fingers behind his head. “Well, fire away then.”

“ _This is the story of a Space Wizard_ ,” Papyrus says dramatically. “The Space Wizard lived in a grand interstellar space-kingdom just beyond the Horsehead Nebula. There, the people lived in quiet anonymity, for long ago they had learned to fear other people and cut themselves off from the rest of the galaxy.

The kingdom was plagued with hopelessness. Hopelessness, as everyone knows, is particularly subtle and particularly deadly. The true dangers of hopelessness are the feelings of despair and guilt brought upon the infected, which often made victims deny their symptoms to both their loved ones and themselves. The Space Wizard was determined to free his kingdom from this disease. Food and sleep were pushed away until absolutely necessary; all day he would research spells and concoctions in the hopes of creating a faster diagnosis, and all night he would practice his space-magicks in the hopes of developing a cure. 

Now, the Space Wizard was close friends to the Royal Chef (who was known far and wide for his delicious creations). The Chef knew of the Space Wizard’s research, but because of the Space Wizard’s secretive nature, the Chef didn’t know the extent of it. The Space Wizard made sure the Chef often saw him sleeping or playing pranks to ensure he would not suspect the difficulty of the Space Wizard’s work.

One day, the Chef came into the wizard's study. “Space Wizard,” the Chef said, “I have brought you an assistant to keep you on task!”

The Space Wizard, who had been pretending to nap at his desk, turned around to see the bravest Warrior in the kingdom (with whom the Chef was good friends) poking through a bookshelf. Though he preferred to work alone, the Space Wizard recognized the Chef’s attempt to help him and accepted it graciously.

“Someone has to make sure you stay focused, and I am too busy creating culinary masterpieces to do it right now,” the Chef said. And with that, he left the two to their work.

As soon as the door closed behind the Chef, the Warrior stepped up the Wizard's desk. “I don't know much about space-magic, but I do know something about staying motivated. Show me what you've got.”

The Space Wizard reluctantly disclosed the work he'd been doing: hidden under joke books and blank papers were piles of notes, books he had read and re-read, and dozens of reports the wizard pretended were unfinished so the Chef would assume he was slacking.

“You aren't lazy at all,” exclaimed the Warrior, “You work where no one can see you because you're weird!”

“Thanks,” the Space Wizard replied. “Now if you don't mind...?”

“I hope you succeed, for all of us.” The Warrior bowed once and exited the study.

And the Space Wizard worked all afternoon and into the night.

The next day, the Chef came again to the Wizard's study. “Since you somehow scared off the king's bravest Warrior, I have brought you a new assistant to help you work faster!”

The Space Wizard, who had been pretending to play paddle-ball, turned around to see the Royal Scientist (with whom the bravest Warrior was good friends) wringing her hands in the doorway. Though he preferred to work alone, the Space Wizard recognized the Chef’s attempt to help him and accepted it graciously.

“Someone has to make sure you produce results, and I am too busy feeding the kingdom to do it right now,” the Chef said. And with that, he left the two to their work.

As soon as the door closed, the Royal Scientist timidly approached the Space Wizard's desk. “I know don't know much about space magic, but I've done extensive research in most fields of space science. Show me your findings.”

The Space Wizard reluctantly disclosed the work he'd been doing: hidden under whoopee cushions and dirty socks were procedural notebooks, medical tomes illicitly borrowed from other kingdoms, and dozens of folders filled to bursting with the Space Wizard's inconclusive research.

“You're not lazy at all,” said the Royal Scientist as she looked over the findings, “You're hiding your work from the Chef. Why?”

The Space Wizard rubbed the back of his skull and looked away. “I want to keep him safe. Now if you don't mind...?”

“I hope you succeed, for all of us.” The Royal Scientists said, and exited the study.

And the Space Wizard worked all afternoon and into the night.

The next day, the Chef returned once again. “Space Wizard! You have somehow managed to send away both the kingdom's bravest Warrior and the Royal Scientist, and neither of them will tell me why.”

The Space Wizard turned around, and the Chef stopped short. The Space Wizard's clothes were wrinkled and stained, his eyes were dull and lifeless, and his shoulders were heavy with despair. He looked haggard and unkempt, like he had been working so long he'd forgotten to take care of himself. But worst of all, he had the look of someone who could no longer see a reason to take care of themselves.

“Oh,” said the Chef, “You have the hopelessness.”

The Space Wizard sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it's easy to catch hopelessness from the hopeless.” And it was true. If left unchecked, hopelessness could easily spread between well-meaning friends and loves ones.

The Chef thought long and hard about what to do. He'd never seen the effects of hopelessness first hand, and it broke his heart to see his dearest friend in its grips. Finally, he strode forward and put both arms around the Space Wizard. “I'm sorry I didn't listen to you,” he said.

“Don't,” the Space Wizard said, “You'll catch it too.”

The Chef placed both hands on the Space Wizard's shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I'm sorry I said you were lazy, and I’m sorry I made assumptions about your needs. I see you now. And I'm not going anywhere.”

And with that, the hopelessness let up just enough for the Space Wizard to reach out. For, as no one knew then but everyone knows now, hopelessness can only be lifted with help that is meaningful to the inflicted. While nothing can truly cure hopelessness, its symptoms can be managed with real, honest communication and real, honest understanding. Together, the Space Wizard and the Chef put together a treatment and spread it to the kingdom.

“So, Space Wizard,” said the Chef after the kingdom had finished celebrating the miraculous end of the crisis, “What will you do now?”

The Space Wizard looked over his mountain of notes and books and whoopee cushions and un-washed socks, and he looked at the Chef and smiled. “Let's go home.”

“ _And they did_.” Papyrus finishes, “ _The end_.”

Toriel has never seen Sans look choked-up before. “Cool story, bro. It was really great.”

Papyrus draws to covers up over Sans’ shoulders and bumps their skulls together. “Go to sleep, Sans,” he says, climbing into his own bed, “I’ll be here in the morning.”

Toriel smooths Sans’ pillow and draws the blankets over, then turns off the light and eases the door shut behind her. With both her guests safely in bed, she settles into her chair and returns to her knitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snowdin is so tiny, nobody locks their doors.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Papyrus, M.D. Sans, M.Arch. Toriel, Q.o.E (Queen of Everything).
> 
> It's time to say goodbye.

“Ow,” says Sans.

“Almost done,” Toriel says, increasing the flow of magic to Sans’ skull fracture. “Now, see how the two sides are reaching out to each other? Extrinsic energy and matter can easily be caught between the pieces, which is why you must make sure the site is clean by…?”

“Sterilizing the area and waiting three days for any foreign magic to dissipate,” Papyrus answers.

Toriel nods. “Very good.”

“Still ow,” says Sans.

The pride of getting a correct answer slides off Papyrus’ face. He watches the fracture knit back together with increasing worry. “Why is it hurting him?”

“The break was not clean, so it is probably taking the sensitive pieces a few tries to fuse properly. The healing process can often by uncomfortable. Sans, how would you describe the sensations you are experiencing?”

“It stings, and kind of itches.” He reaches up to scratch the irritation.

Toriel swats his hands away. “That is normal. The nerve ending are re-aligning, which can cause a feeling like touching a nettle. But the process is delicate and it is imperative that you _do not scratch_.” She adds a dash of heat to her hands to soothe the site and, hopefully, abate the itching.

Papyrus takes Sans’ hands in both of his to hold them still. “It will be over soon, it already looks like one solid piece again.”

Sans sighs heavily and does not complain further.

“There,” Toriel says a few minutes later, “All finished. I am going to check it over, but everything looks just fine. How does it feel?”

“Better,” Sans says, carefully prodding the area. 

Toriel smacks his hands away again. “ _Do not touch_ , I want to make sure the magic has settled. Papyrus, come here so I can show you.”

She points out the visual difference between the new and old bone, and shows Papyrus how to gently feel the textural change between the healed pieces with his hands. It’s smoother, less porous, and two shades lighter than the surrounding area. “Feel the residual magic? It will linger for a week or two.”

Papyrus very gently touches where the healed section meets the rest of Sans’ skull. “It’s warm,” he says.

“The inside of my head feels toasty,” Sans adds helpfully.

“Is that alright,” Papyrus asks nervously, “Are his eyeballs going to melt out?”

“My magic is fire-based, so it reads as warm,” Toriel says, “It is not real heat, and it is not going to cause any negative feedback. Your magic will also have a distinct feeling when you use it, Papyrus. Speaking of which, I would like you to heal Sans’ ribs.”

Papyrus eyes the injuries nervously. “Are you sure I’m ready? I don’t feel ready.”

“I am sure,” Toriel says, guiding Papyrus’ hands into place. She had started him out with half a dozen eggs, each gently cracked to give Papyrus a practice dummy to heal. The first trial resulted in a mended but thickly over-grown shell, which Toriel reassured a panicked Papyrus was only a result of overestimating the scope of the injury. The second and third came out less dense, and by the fourth he was making good estimations about the amount of magic needed.

A living creature with its own magic is not the same as a cracked egg. Toriel starts Papyrus on Sans’ lower floating rib, where several hairline fractures traverse the bone. He gently runs his thumbs over the jagged lines and looks absolutely heartsick.

Sans taps the side of his brother’s skull. “Hey.”

Papyrus looks up. “What?”

“Do you want to take a _break_?”

Papyrus sighs. “Not the time or the place, Sans.”

“Sorry.” Sans lays a hand on Papyrus’ shoulder and looks away. “It… bugs me to see you look at it like that. Like there’s something wrong with me.”

“If you’re speaking literally, your cracked bones are the definition of there being something wrong with you. If you’re speaking in terms of character, we have been over this and you know that I think you’re great.” Papyrus pokes Sans’ sternum with a sour look. “I hate that this happened to you, and I hate that I was friends with the thing that did this.”

Sans bumps their heads together. Toriel recognizes this as a gesture of affection between two monsters that don’t have hair to ruffle. It reminds her of the loving head-butts she and her siblings exchanged as kids. “Pap, listen. It’s not your fault that some nutty yellow daisy wanted a new set of legs. You’re not responsible for someone else’s crap behavior.”

“But if I had—”

“Not done. You’re a good kid with a big heart and you want to take care of the whole world. I get that. Now I need you to get that you didn’t do this. It’s not your fault. And who knows who else that guy was talking to? He could have found out about me from anyone.” He presses his head to Papyrus’ again. “I’ll keep listening to you about how great I am, and you’ll keep listening to me about how you’re not responsible for everything. Don’t worry about it, okay? I don’t.”

Papyrus grins, a little watery but genuine. “You don’t worry about anything.”

“Exactly. You could learn a thing or two from Big Brother Sans.” He pats Papyrus’ head a few times. “Now come on, Doctor Bones, patch me up. Make like Onion-san and unleash the crack-en.”

“Onion-san is not a squid,” Papyrus says with a sniff, “But I deem your pun unpleasant nonetheless.”

Sans grins and gives a thumbs up. “I’ll take it.”

Papyrus takes a deep breath and gently traces the largest fracture with his index finger, mapping out the size and depth of the injury, then pushes his own magic into the break. The two sides reach out and blur together, then smooth over as a delicate sliver of new bone grows between them.

“That feels weird,” Sans says, both hands gripping the blanket to keep from scratching, “But not painful.”

Toriel inspects Papyrus’ work to make sure everything has healed properly, but doesn’t have any real doubts about it. “This looks good,” she affirms, “You are ready to do the others, then the arm.”

Papyrus carefully heals the assorted chips and fractures. Sans makes several interesting faces when Papyrus feels around the inside of his ribcage, but manages to keep from squirming too much.

Toriel checks again to be sure, but everything seems to be in order. “Alright, Sans, I officially declare you to be healthy. The new bone may be sensitive to temperature change for a few days, so make sure to bundle up.”

Sans flashes her a grin. “Thanks, Tori. And thank _you_ , Doctor Bones.”

“Stop calling me that,” Papyrus grumbles.

“Hey Tori, did you know that when Pap was a kid, he was completely convinced that he was going to be a doctor? He had this tiny little stethoscope and ran around giving everyone candy medicine, and always said he was going to cure everything.”

“ _Sans_.”

“But, see, that little kid knew what he was talking about, because I feel way better,” Sans continues, inspecting his freshly mended arm, “My ribs are healed, and now you know an embarrassing story about Pap, too.”

“Brother, you betray me,” Papyrus groans, burying his face in his hands.

Toriel puts on a stern face to keep from laughing. “That wasn't nice.”

“I didn’t know this was a consult. Will it cost me extra, Doc?”

“ _SANS_.”

-

Having passed his health checks and apologized to his brother, Sans sits down to create a template. He chooses a section of non-loadbearing wall, cracks his knuckles, and calls for Papyrus. Though they gently ban her from helping with the project ( _“Guests are responsible for damages brought on the house of the host.” “No bones about it, Tori.”_ ), Toriel is a caretaker at heart and makes soup and sandwiches and a plate of snails for lunch. She descends the steps to the sound of unheated bickering.

“Stop shifting the tools around with your eye,” Papyrus says, “I can’t get this done if you keep moving them.”

“Dunno what you’re t- _awl_ -king about,” Sans replies. Judging by the sound of tools dragging across stone, Toriel thinks Sans knows exactly what Papyrus is talking about.

“First, this is a chisel. Second, you’re doing it right now!”

“ _Knife_ of you to notice.”

Toriel rounds the corner in time to see Papyrus lob a chipped-off piece of stone at his brother. Sans catches the pebble and tosses it back.

“Boys,” she says, “Stop throwing things at each other and come eat.”

“He started it,” Papyrus grumbles, but sets his hammer down and offers Sans his hand. Sans, who is now fully capable of getting up without help, accepts Papyrus’ assistance with a fond look. Toriel considers this to be outstanding progress.

They sit a short distance from the work area and eat together. Toriel eats most of the snails herself. “How are things going?”

“Well!” Papyrus answers, “We have successfully cut and removed one set of doors from the wall! We plan to create the second set before nightfall and install them tomorrow morning. Sans even mentioned something about insulation to keep the draft out.”

“I think I can make some caulk to seal the sides,” Sans says, curiously examining a grilled snail.

“Sans used to be a scientist,” Papyrus explains, making a face as his brother eats the snail. “How is it?”

“Kind of salty,” Sans says thoughtfully. “I could get used to this.”

No brings up the fact that Sans won’t have a chance to get used to this. Toriel would love for the skeleton brothers to stay, but their paths are destined to diverge from here: Sans and Papyrus need to track down Frisk to make sure they’re alright, while Toriel needs to keep this space safe for any other children who might fall down Mount Ebott. Aside from muffled conversations through whatever ends up acting as a door, they won’t be seeing each other again.

“You’ll have to give us the recipe,” Sans says to smooth things over, reaching for another snail.

Toriel smiles. “Actually, while you two have been working, I have collected my favorite recipes for you to take home with you. That way, you can try them yourselves.”

Papyrus covers his gloomy expression with a wide grin. “The Great Papyrus is honored by your guidance. I’ll use them to make sure _someone_ doesn’t ingest his weight in grease every night.” 

“And I’ll make sure _someone_ doesn’t burn down the house,” Sans replies, flicking an empty shell at Papyrus.

After lunch, Toriel wanders back upstairs so Sans and Papyrus can get back to work (and squabbling). She looks over their knitting projects, fondly running a finger along the lopsided rows. All her goodbyes have been difficult, and this one is no different. Toriel sets the finished pieces back down and wanders to the fireplace, eyeing the two guest pillows on the floor as she rearranges the kindling. The house will be lonely while she waits.

The sound of arguing drifts up from the basement. It makes her smile. Each human child chose to leave before another made their way underground. If there had been more than one, would they have bickered like this? Sans and Papyrus often come together in a gentle clash of different opinions, but there is no real anger in Sans’ grin or Papyrus’ shout. She imagines Frisk will be a nice balancing factor between them, too even-tempered to join in and too compassionate to let things go unchecked. Toriel thinks of the unfinished sweater stored under her chair with a smile. Originally, she had planned to make it striped like Frisk’s shirt, but now she thinks she’ll add some of her own purple to the pattern.

It will go nicely with the skeleton brothers’ blue and red palettes.

-

Papyrus, who apparently carries Emergency Pasta with him at all times, insists on cooking their final dinner together. Sans goes with him to mitigate the damage. Toriel hears strands of the conversation: _“Pap, I'm putting my foot down here. We're making something else.” “But you've always eaten my pasta!” “I'll eat anything you put in front of me because I love you, not because it's delicious.”_ In the end, they compromise on spinach-egg pie with spaghetti on the side. Papyrus absolutely beams when he hands Toriel her plate.

“Sans taught me how to make the crust flaky! And I taught him that everything can be solved with pasta,” he says with a glare in Sans' direction.

Toriel looks at Sans, who has an entire plate of spaghetti in front of him. “Is this your _penne_ -tance?”

He grins. “It's proof that I truly want to _anelli_ -gize.”

Papyrus graces them both with his grumpiest face. “Your _pun_ -tines are terrible, _Sans_ -cchettoni and _Tori_ -tellini.”

Several puns and plates of food later, the dishes are washed and the three of them return to the sitting room. Sans and Papyrus carefully extract the pie puzzle from its box so they can finish it together. It takes a little over an hour to assemble the remaining pieces, but in the end the completed picture sits proudly on the table. It’s painted in warm tones, and shows a fresh pie sitting on a generic kitchen windowsill. Toriel’s favorite details are the dirty bowls and flour splattered over the counter, because it’s impossible to make a good dessert without first making a mess.

Sans calls bedtime when Papyrus starts to yawn. He adds the guest pillows to the nest of blankets on the nursery floor and tucks his tired brother in. “Looks like somebody’s worn out from all the magic healing they did today.”

“Not me,” Papyrus complains.

“Must be me, then. You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to, but it is story time. So: Peekaboo with Fluffy Bunny? It’s a classic, and I’ve pretty much got it memorized.”

“If I may,” says Toriel, pulling a worn old book from the shelf, “I have a collection of bedtime tales that might interest you.”

Papyrus looks delighted. “I want to hear a story from Toriel tonight! Fluffy Bunny will have to wait, Sans.”

Sans arranges himself more comfortably on the floor and flashes a thumbs up. Toriel seats herself on Papyrus’ other side. She traces the designs on the book’s cover. These stories were last read to her human children in this very room. “This book was written for my family, so the protagonists are all ungulates,” she says.

“Hoofed mammals, and some aquatic ones,” Sans explains.

Toriel opens the book to a marked page, and starts to read with a wistful smile. She tells the stories of Dawn the Deer (who learns that her imperfect parents love her with all their hearts) and Saddie the patient Spanish Ibex (who stands up for her brothers until they realize that true strength comes not from physical ability, but intent) and Pietro the Plains Zebra (who saves his home because he refuses to let his loved ones come to harm). Just as it’s getting late, she finishes with one of her old favorites: Oswald the grumpy Okapi, who gains an appreciation for the family he doesn’t always understand.

“…so even though their noise and joys and lumps and bumps would always be a mystery to him, Oswald knew that his family cared about him very much. And when he came home to find his family asleep in their beds, Oswald made sure to tuck each and every one of his sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, and both of his grandparents. The end.”

She closes the book. Papyrus fell tellingly silent halfway through the last story, and is now fast asleep. Sans pulls the blankets up over Papyrus’ arms, then stands up to pop his back. The vertebrae resettle with a satisfying popping noise.

“Thanks for reading tonight,” he says quietly, climbing into his own bed.

“It was my pleasure,” Toriel replies. She fluffs Papyrus’ pillow, then draws the blankets up over Sans’ shoulders and clicks off one of the lights, leaving the room comfortably dim. “It was truly wonderful to have you here.”

“We could stay here, you know. Frisk is a tough kid, they can probably get through the barrier all on their own.”

Toriel doesn’t respond.

Sans sighs. “Yeah, I know. Just, I really like it here. It’s been really nice staying with you and being here with Pap, and I’m worried that things will go back to the way they were before. Everything does, eventually.”

Toriel places a warm hand on his shoulder. “No, it does not. Not this time. Both of you know better now.”

He fiddles with the blanket. “What if something happens and we forget?”

Toriel takes pulls Sans’ hands apart and holds them between her own. “Then you will figure it out again. That is what family does.”

Sans looks up at her for a long moment. Finally, he smiles. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They sit together in the warmly lit nursery as Papyrus sleeps on.

-

The next morning, Sans does the heavy lifting and Papyrus carefully guides the doors into place. They attach the hinges and lay down a draft insulator made from fabric scraps and a strong adhesive.

“Well, that's it,” Sans says when the door opens without catching. He tugs his new hat (complete with a decorative pom-pom on top) down over his temples. “Guess it's time.”

Papyrus dusts some powered rock from his new mittens (also decorated with pom-poms) and looks out into the Snowdin evening. “Guess so.”

They look back to Toriel, who has joined them with two knitting needles, two skeins of yarn, and an armful of completed knitting. She hands them the knitting materials, then wraps the scarf around Papyrus' neck and tugs the sweater over Sans' head. “It was wonderful to have you here,” Toriel says.

“It was really good to be here,” Sans replies. He and Papyrus share a glance. 

Toriel thinks about how much they've already grown and all the growth they will continue to do, and she beams. “I will miss you dearly, but we can always meet at right here at the door.”

Papyrus smiles. “We'll miss you, too.” He draws himself up and gives a snappy salute.

Toriel bows in return, then pulls him into a hug. “Papyrus, do not forget to listen. Sans, do not forget that you needn't be strong all the time. You two will take excellent care of each other.”

“We will,” agrees Sans, who has appeared at Toriel's side. She scoops him up so there is one skeleton under each arm.

They both smile at her, and gently bump their heads against hers. Toriel smiles and bumps back.

“And when you see Frisk, tell them to stop by the balcony soon. I will probably forget to bring in the laundry tonight, and there will probably be a sweater just their size.”

Both skeleton brothers smile. They're covered in knitted clothing, and look so much lighter than when they first came.

Toriel sighs. “It is time.”

“Goodbye, Queen Toriel,” Papyrus says with a sniffle.

Sans pats Papyrus' arm. His eye lights up, and with it, the doors start to close. “See ya, Tori.”

Toriel smiles until the doors ease shut and their glow fades.

Toriel leans back against the closed doors for a long time. She thinks about the family she has already lost, and the two skeletons on the other side of the door, and the entire monster population packed into the Underground. And the six tiny souls sleeping in cold storage in the home she used to share with her husband and family. And the small human child trapped under Mount Ebbot who, with a little luck, just might save them all.

She wipes her eyes on a sleeve and walks back upstairs.

-

Toriel steps out onto the balcony, pleased to find the sweater she left out has vanished. She wonders if Frisk went to the capital to cross the barrier, and if Sans and Papyrus went with them. As she carefully hangs the sweater over the low wall, her foot brushes something small and soft that wasn’t there this morning. Toriel picks it up. It’s a knitted purple tea cozy, with a picture and note attached.

Hope this keeps your tea as warm as your heart.

The picture is of Frisk, wearing their new purple sweater, sitting behind a Royal Guard sentry post while Sans and Papyrus pretend to look for them.

Toriel smiles, and later that evening slides the picture into the empty frame in the nursery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this came across well, but Sans makes the Responsibility Quiche at the end there because he's finally ready. Yes, I am very proud of myself.
> 
> So there we go! Thank you so much to everyone who came this far with me, your encouragement really kept me going through the process. If you have any questions/comments/concerns, or you have ideas about what you'd else like to see here, or you just feel like dropping by to say hi, drop me a line right [here](http://katan-a-rama.tumblr.com/). Thanks again!


End file.
